


Then I'll Be Gone

by Dead_walking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blending Universes, Cannon Timeline, Crossing Timelines, End!verse, Gen, Hurt!Sam, Lucifer POV, POV Alternating, Present!Winchesters, Sam Winchester POV, Young!Winchesters, protective!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2787251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead_walking/pseuds/Dead_walking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beautiful thing is: Lucifer can't take what isn't freely offered.</p><p>..........................................................................................</p><p>It always had to be Sam.</p><p>Before there was a word for the species known as humans and God demanded that the angels kneel before them, Sam’s destiny was woven in the essence of time itself, molding and growing and crawling to the point when Azazel found himself standing over a white crib.</p><p>In a time perfectly constructed by cupid's mark upon two hearts, destiny found the being named Sam Winchester and wrapped itself around him like a blanket as his mother burned at the core above him.</p><p>(Sam will not remember this moment, but he will be running from it the rest of his life)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then I'll Be Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a lot of sleepless nights and a rewatch of season 1. There's so much to explore with Sam's character, I had to give it a go. It's a bit reform, but I had a lot of fun writing it, so I hope you all enjoy.

It always had to be Sam.

Before there was a word for the species known as humans and God demanded that the angels kneel before them, Sam’s destiny was woven in the essence of time itself, molding and growing and crawling to the point when Azazel found himself standing over a white crib.

In a time perfectly constructed by cupid's mark upon two hearts, destiny found the being named Sam Winchester and wrapped itself around him like a blanket as his mother burned at the core above him.

(Sam will not remember this moment, but he will be running from it the rest of his life)

::

It started with a drop of blood (it started with a promise- _Oh, you can keep your soul. I just need permission._ )

Lucifer can almost see the demon blood spread through Sam’s veins – flowing into his heart, snaking up his spine and into his brain. It breathes and sighs, molding and clutching until he can practically hear it claim the child – _mine_.

Oh, but it's wrong. So very, very wrong. Sam has always - will always - belong to one singular creature. He was made for Lucifer and he'll only be claimed when he whispers the word _yes._

This is the moment Sam's body stops being Sam's (not wholly, but the Winchester will always put up a fight- until he doesn't). Time fractured for them, splintered and spread until it was inevitable that Sam would walk straight into his arms. The time, place, none of it mattered except for the final line, the admission that Sam Winchester was his. 

The angel will one day tell the (annoying, meddling one that will believe in free will and change) other Winchester that time is fluid. It won't be-is not-a lie. There is no straight line, no pretty graph laid out on the table with dots and milestones circled in pinks and blues. This is how Lucifer knows that Sammy will say yes. He can hear the whisper now, even as Sam promises himself over (andoverandover) again that he’ll say no. He can see himself pour into his vessel as it stares so defiantly at him.

The truth is: Sam Winchester will be Sam for twenty five years. Lucifer was Lucifer since the beginning and will be until the end. He will be Sam for a microsecond, until his core burns out and there's nothing left but a whisper and a cry, dying out completely when a white shoe breaks a pale neck in the back of a rose garden.

 _Yes_ , he hears, and he drinks it like wine.

::

Sam's skin constricts and stretches, already hinting at the battle the boy will wage against himself. So he reads, he reads and studies and tries out for the soccer team when his father is on a particularly long hunt. The distractions are almost enough. Until Sam looks in the mirror and sees something swimming in the depths of his eyes. It swirls and fades, a shadow he can't quite place. It makes his stomach twist with a feeling he doesn't want to name. Sam knows, he knows he's different, but he splashes cold water on his face and whisper, _normal. I (want to be)am normal._

He closes his eyes, shuts it away inside, and when he looks back in the mirror, there is only his reflection staring back at himself. These are the moments that Sam convinces himself that it’s all in his head (he won't recognize them as a lie). Dean's right, it's just the backlash of knowing that the monster under your bed is real and that you need to stab it in the heart before it drags you into the dark.

_I’m okay,_ he says (and believes it). _I’m fine._

"Hand me the gun." It’s an easy transition as he walks out of the bathroom rolling his shoulders and taking a breath. The living room smells like metal and oil and home. 

Sam's skin is hot, oh so hot. _Help me, Dean,_ he moans and he twists in his blankets (twists in his skin), but he can't get away- he won't get away. Something rubs against his forehead and it’s so cool and calming that Sam wants to hold onto it and never let go. He tries to lose himself in the feeling, but it's so, so distant, falling away when he just wants to bring it closer. 

“Shit, you're burning up, Sammy." The voice is familiar, muffled through the throbbing of the heat. Dean, it has to be Dean. Of course Dean would come for him, he always does. The bed creaks as a weight shifts away, but Dean can't go, can't leave Sammy here alone. Sam's not sure what he grabs - a hand, a jacket, but he makes sure to hold it as tightly as he possibly can. 

“No." It's delirious, panicked. “Don't leave…I promise I’ll get better. I'll get better and be normal." 

There’s a brief glimpse of a smile that he doesn’t see, the ruffling of hair he barely feels. “You'll feel normal once I get you some medicine and soup.” 

When he wakes, Sammy has no memory of the heat, just a tremor that Dean promises will go away once the fevor fully breaks. 

And Sam, well, Sam believes him. 

Sam stares as his knuckles, his fingers, his hands. He stretches is palm until the skin is red and tight, looking past the creases and into his veins. In a different place, created of fire and hatred and greed, Lucifer’s presence will ripple and thump. _Such wonderful hands_ , Lucifer thinks, _we’ll do such beautifully dreadful things with those hands._ Sam doesn’t hear him, and for a brilliant moment, feels right at home in his skin. 

:: 

There are many things inside Sam that Lucifer can admire once he understands what this Winchester boy is capable of. There's so much potential, so much they are capable of doing together, this stubborn boy and he. Anger pops and bubbles inside the boy's subconscious, ready to be unleashed and to take control (of the boy, of the world). He is raw and powerful and pure- and so, so close to giving up control. 

(Lucifer will admire Sam's power from the beginning but it's not until Sam succumbs to the anger festering inside him that Lucifer will come to love him). 

But not even the strongest love remains blind forever. Though Lucifer loves Sam, there are things about the boy he wants to reach out and crush. Only when everyting falls at Sam's feet like ash will Sam be reborn. Lucifer's essence tingles with the thought of breaking Sam's will, the very spirit that keeps him tied to everything he fights for. Even iron and stone crumble with enough pressure and Sam is already cracked in the midde. This is how Lucifer knows that Sam's meticulous belief in himslf, and worse, in his (false idol) brother, will shatter. 

Lucifer can already feel the relationship slipping though the older one is fighting, will continue fighting until he hears whispers that Sam gave himself over. The beautiful thing is, he doesn't need to send in a pawn to widen the rift between the brothers, he just needs to sit idol, abide his time until Dean pushes just a fraction of an inch too far and sends Sammy over the edge.

"I just need you to back off, Dean. I don't need you looking after me every second of my life, I don't need dad telling me what to do. I don't need this life and I don't need you." Then, well, then it's off to be a lawyer, it's off to meet the girl that will strike the flame and ignite the fire that will bring Sam to his knees. 

Sam thinks he's breaking away, he thinks he's finally free. He thinks now this world, this anger, will not break him.

But it will. 

Three drops of blood drag Sam back into this old life. His need for revenge, his drive for vengeance are what push him forward. Perfectly timed steps on a path already formed millions of years ago. Oh, Sam tries to change -and he does (with a solid fist and am open heart), but with every good intention, with every life saved and ghoul killed, the anger lingers and whispers. It makes him pull the trigger- twice. Makes him twist the dagger for the extra edge of pain before he pulls out. It wears him down and tears at him, slowly and deliberately, crumbling the resolve he builds around himself. Oh, the justifications come easily enough- _I had no choice. You were in hell, Dean, and I had to get you out. This saves people._

The first step towards his destiny tastes bitter and warm as it slides down his throat (Ruby will smile, say: _Good boy_ ). It destroys (rebuilds and betters) him. Takes down everyone he cares for- _you picked a demon over your brother_?- but like a good soldier, Sam carries on. There’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him to turn back, it’s not too late, but it’s fading, fading away. With every drop of blood he licks with revulsion, the transformation spreads and twists, deepens and secures itself into his very being. He won't see the majesty of is all until walks into a parking lot in Detroit, and then, then Sam Winchester will be Lucifer's. 

And all it took was dragging his brother into the pit. 

Pity Sam can’t hear him screaming. 

Sam wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth with shaking hands. Such beauty in his desperation. 

Oh, Sam Winchester, it’s too late to go back. 

_Dean_ , Sam whispers and he shuts his eyes tight. 

( _Sammy,_ Dean screams before his tongue is ripped out). 

::

Sam has nightmares, all children do. 

Few wake with the taste of blood lingering in their mouths. But Sammy pushes down the memory as he fills his bowl with Lucky Charms and milk.

It will take Sam several years to realize his nightmares are different ( _no no no, I'm normal_ ), like something crawling out of his soul (imbedding itself into his flesh). Like something inside of his mind is claiming his thoughts, tainting his memories and his desires. He’s too young to understand the danger, too weak to remember the nightmares when he wakes in the middle of the night.

On particularly bad nights, he wakes with the feeling of loss and rage, but swallows them down with a cup of water. If only he could swish them around his mouth and spit them down the drain. Sam's older now, he's beginning to realize that it's not that simple, nothing ever is. But he hangs onto the hope that this is just a phase that he’ll grow out of. He’s over stressed, sleep-deprived, under-living, this isn’t him; it can’t be. 

He keeps the dreams to himself until he can't. Too many bloodshot eyes and failed research sessions. Their father may be too distracted to notice, but Dean's always been as sharp as a hawk. So when Dean drops his fork one morning and asks: "Are we just going to keep on sittng here pretending like everything's okay?" Sam can't help but crumble.

It's unexpected, even though it isn't. Sam's been waiting for the question, has been forming the answer in the back of his throat for three days and two states, but he never expect to confess over cold eggs and nearly expired milk. 

There’s a brief moment when Sam thinks this can be easy. He opens his mouth like he's actually going to tell Dean. Just a deep breath followed by an explanation and maybe, just maybe, Dean will be able to make everything okay like he used to. The moment must have been lost to Sam pulling the trigger for the first time but Dean lost that ability months ago. Sam wants to go back to when a smile and a promise were all he needed to turn off the light, but he can't go back and he's not even sure why. So he stalls, he stalls and says: “I'm fine,” instead of: _I'm tired, Dean, so, so tired. Every time I close my eyes, I feel myself slipping away and I don't know how to stop it and I'm not sure you can help, not this time._ He quickly adds: "Really," but doesn't think he sounds half as convincing as he hopes. 

When did it become this hard to talk to Dean? It used to be Sam and Dean against the world, now when he looks at Dean, he just sees an imitation of their father. They can go back, he knows they can, he just doesn't know how to start. He needs to know what to say, where to look to find the crack that has been growing between them. For now, he just stabs at his eggs to distract himself from Dean’s stare. It's solid and focused, connecting dots that Sam never wanted to be connected. It almost makes him want to scream. 

Dean leans back in his chair, arm swinging to his side. Anyone else would think he’s backing off, but Sam knows well enough that he's just beginning the attack. “Sammy-" 

“I have dreams,” The words are rushed, a puff of air too hot to contain. There’s so much more he wants to say- _something’s crawling under my skin, I can feel it when I go to sleep at night, I feel it watching me in the darkness and I think it’s going to grab me, pull me down and – and, the anger- Oh god, the anger,_ but he holds the words down, breathes them out. 

“Dreams?" Two eyebrows shoot up in confusion. "I'm guessing not like two bikini models and a hot tub dreams?” 

Sam shakes his head. “More like nightmares." 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean sighs and Sam doesn't miss the way he rolls his eyes. (These are the times he thinks he misses his mother, even if he doesn't know what that’s supposed to feel like). "Our lives our messed up enough without you torturing yourself in your sleep. Look, I know we've seen some shit lately that would make a grown man cry, but you've gotta shake it off, man. You'll go crazy otherwise." 

Sam nods. He knows that it's true, but there's just something about them he can't quie shake. "I know but, they’re just so real.” 

Dean eases up – he always does- and offers him a smile. “You're letting things get to you, Sammy." For a second, he hears his own exhaustion in Dean's voice, but it's shut off before Sam gets a second to pry. "You need a day to unwind, have some fun if you still remember what that is. Go to the movies, hell, find yourself a little girlfriend," he says like that’s something they can just do. 

Sam takes another bite of his eggs and forces it down. He wants to ask Dean if he ever gets this tired. If he ever wants to slip away until they've forgotten the chill of a ghost, but he doesn't think he wants to know the answer. “Yeah, okay,” he says and wishes he could still find a sense of comfort in Dean's words. 

“Look,” Dean rubs at his eyes before looking at Sam. “I'll stay up tonight. If it looks like you're having a rough night, I'll wake you up and we'll take care of it. Go for a drive or, I don't know - just, something, anything to get your mind off of what's going on" (Lucifer doesn't like this one, can't wait to tear his throat out and watch him bleed). 

"Okay," Sam agrees. "Let's try."

Sam doesn't dream that night or the next. It's temporary, Sam can still feel the darkness stalking him when he drifts off, but Dean promised things would get better and Dean always makes good on his promises. It will take a few more years for Sam to realise that promises are always broken and that Dean can’t always fix the problem. Once he does, he'll turn his back on his brother forever. 

He never mentions the dreams again. Not until Jessica. Not until the blood is bubbling in his veins, calling to him about his powers, his purpose. And then, then it’s too late. 

(He dreams of fires and of creaking floors. He dreams of a smile that turns blue and of a scream that never has time to leave bruised lips. He dreams of bodies bloated in the water but they’re reaching, grabbing. 

He dreams of pale green eyes and a boy that kills with a knife but never lifts his hands. He dreams- 

And he begs not to). 

:: 

Lucifer hears whispers (rumors and truths and prophecies). He hears about the first time Sam shoots at a target and hits. Hears about the time Sam punches a bully in the face and _likes_ it. There is also the first hunt, of course (a two penny ghost. Sam nearly drops the bag of salt but Dean’s there to keep him steady). He hears about Sam's first kill, then the fifth, and then the tenth. Most importantly, he hears about the fights. The first fight about needing to finish his homework and the final fight that ended with two suitcases and a car heading towards California. 

Sam blames his father for not understanding him, blames Dean for being over protective. Can't he get it through his head that Sam's not a child aymore? He's not the boy that had nighmares or needed protecting from a shifter. And if he feels a little ouside of himself, it's because his family won't let him be himself. This is how Lucifer knows that Sam is losing the war against himself but calls it winning.

Oh yes, Lucifer hears whispers and truths, but he also _feels_. This is how Lucifer knows he’s connected to his vessel, that he’ll hear him say yes and give himself over. There's the swell of pride over an acceptance letter, the dull throb of heartache when she doesn't show up at the bar. There's the sting of rejection after four months without a single phone call. More importantly though, it's the knuckle popping frustration that wells up inside of him when he thinks of being forgotten. Let them have their hunts and their broken family, Sam doesn't need them. He has Jess now and she's enough. It's the suffocating feeling of anger and bitterness and longing that anchor deep in the depts of his lungs. Sam breathes them in and holds them down, feeding his body like oxygen. 

(this is the start of creation) 

The anger built steadily enough. Anger over moving –again. Changing schools-again. Being the freak-again (again and again and again). Who could blame him for resenting the man that forced this life on his sons with the click of metal and a stern – _this isn’t up for debate, boys_. How could he ignore Dean’s obedient nod without his fingers clenching into fists at his sides. _We're supposed to be a team, Dean. You and me. Just stop the bullshit and stand up to him._ This was their life and it was being taken away by a man he barely knew but had to call father. 

How could he not hate the constant change of wallpapers (and motels and states and people) until nothing felt familiar except for the knife that he keeps tucked in his backpack? 

This was the foundation. Sam feeds himself anger with silent justifications. Doesn't realise the way his teeth grind against each other is a protest of the body, rejecting the blood (anger, rage). But he lets it go when Dean gives him a baseball, or distracts their father with another hunt that will keep them in town long enough for Sam to attend that birthday party and Sam's body relaxes. Forgets the anger lingering just under the skin and forgets its war. 

"We'll make it work," Dean promises. "We'll find a way for everyone to be happy." 

And Sammy, well, Sammy wishes he could believe him. 

_Mine_ , it echoes when Sam's looking the other way. _Mine._

::

A few things become apparent to Sam when he runs away from his old life. 

The first thing is that no matter how fast or far he runs, how much he changes, or changes the people around him, there is no escaping his past (Sam uses the word ‘past’ because he still doesn't understand that his life is altered by who he is, not what happened to him. It will take several years to come to this realization and Sam will hate himself for it). 

The second thing is that he never finds what he’s looking for. Oh, he can play the part well enough – attentive boyfriend, straight A-student, scholarships and friendships and hell, a cooking class on Fridays. And if there’s a tiny voice inside of him needing more, twisting and turning and keeping him up at night, well, Sam’s always been good at drowning what’s inside of him. 

Lucifer knows it’s because he’s looking for the wrong things. Sam’s running, but he’s running in the wrong direction. It’s only a matter of time before he runs out of breath. He’s a smart boy, after all. Gears are already clicking and turning, grinding together with an un-ignorable force that will come to a head when Dean breaks into his home.

Never to put all of his eggs into one basket, Lucifer took precautions – friends and lovers, dates, and professors. Perfectly constructed pawns to guide Sam towards him. It will be an ultimate reminder that Sam’s life was never really his own. Just a constructed pathway leading him down to the faithful moment when Dean will stand at his side, but Sam will still whisper yes. 

Or another path: two brothers broken by betrayals, separated by lies. This Sam will stand alone. He will accept Lucifer’s gift without the pretense of overpowering him, but he’ll still think of Dean before he’s completely buried beneath the power that engulfs him. (Lucifer likes this version of Sam better – but the steps, the turns, those are not his to decide. Those are Sam’s alone. So he’ll sit and watch and take whatever Sam he’s offered).

::

Lucifer sees destinies come together and lay forgotten, he sees stepping stones come together only to dissolve and watches others rise to take their place. He watches as choices are made and broken as if there was a choice. All spinning and weaving and cementing themselves into two times, one place – Lawrence, Kentucky and the birth of two boys that will be so much greater than themselves. 

Dean Winchester is (a flame flickering against the breeze) nothing. Michael will make him great, if only for a second- unless Michael submits and stands with the brother he swore to watch over a millennia ago. Alone, Dean is inconsequential (a bug underneath the sole of a shoe), but Sam, Sam is destined to be incredible. Lucifer sees it, feels it, vibrates with the energy of it.

This is the moment that Sam fails himself –Dean, Bobby, the world. This is the moment he makes up for every flaw and wins Lucifer’s love. Sam’s anger drowns Dean out - _Sam, Sammy_ \- possessing and taking everything that's been promised until Lilth’s blood is sinking into the grooves of the marble floor, sinking down deeper than hell itself, until the cage is unlocked and Lucifer sets foot upon his Father’s creation.

::

 

 _I can save people_ , Sam thinks and it's not a lie. He kills poltergeists and stops a banshee, throws a machete to Dean just in time for his brother to cut off a vampire's head and save the girl with the black mascara and fake tattoo. People thank them, or don't, then they go back to their lives and _live_.

The truth is, even though it's thankless and leaves an exhaustion that cuts to the bone, it's working. This thing, whatever this thing is, can't consume him if he's working this hard against it. He has Dean on his side and that's all he's needed from the start. He lets himself think that it's enough because it has to be enough - the alternative is unbearable. 

So when he smiles at Dean after a hunt, Sam means it; even if there is another wound to stitch, another muscle to ice. Every fight is a victory, he feels it in the way Dean lays his hand on his shoulder, sees it in the way Dean's shoulders loosen after a beer. The curse is Sam's, but the war is theirs. As long as he's not alone, he can do this. As long as he has Dean by his side, they can't go wrong.

The blood still flows freely but Sam is too removed to feel it (doesn't want to feel it and oh, how it spits in protest). Sam reaches for another beer and throws one to Dean. He actually thinks this is working, that they are working. _Mine_ , the blood hisses. _This one can't have what is mine_. Sam doesn't yet know this will be taken away by howls and teeth and claws. He doesn't know he's only allowed this false victory for so long.

The hardest lesson Sam will ever learn: he never had a chance. 

The lesson begins in San Francisco - there's a girl, there always is. Lucifer forgives him this indiscretion, this lapse in flesh. Flesh is weak, filthy, unworthy. Sam will learn this when his time comes. 

The girl (doesn’t get a name, isn't worthy of a name) dies with tears in her eyes and Sam's bullet in her head. She doesn't get a name but she serves her purpose. She teaches Sam that not everyone can be saved, even if they want to be. 

The lesson ends with Dean denying a promise and doubt settling back in the pit of Sam’s stomach. Sam saves people but no one can save him. Lucifer thinks there is nothing to save him from. There is only a gift- beautiful and infinite.

::

There is nothing, nothing at all. The phone rings until it stops, stops calling altogether after weeks of silenced ringers and voice-mails. Sam lets the voice-mails play, picking out sentences before they drift away – _Don’t do anything stupid, boy. This ain’t easy on any of us, you hear? So don’t go checking out on me. I already lost one of you boys, don’t make me lose two. You’ll know where I’ll be._

( _NothingwillhappentoyouwhileI’maround_ ) 

Sam takes a breath and feels the emptiness inside of him growing, hollowing him out one organ at a time until there’s nothing left of him but the memory of Dean’s screaming. It’s only natural that Ruby rubs against him, picks up the pieces that he can’t be bothered to find. And if all the pieces don’t quite fit, he chalks it up to something he’ll never get back, not since he dug a grave he never wanted to dig. 

Liquor burns the back of his throat but he cringes through the pain. Dean would make a joke, say he’s proud, then get reserved – we never really drink together, do we – before taking off Sammy’s shoes and leading him to bed. They never did get to drink together, there was just too much water under the bridge, too many things Sam kept letting get between them. The fingers slipping the bottle out of his hand are too small, too smooth to be Dean’s, but Sammy wants them to be. Would give anything for them to be his. 

“Sam.” Determined, and feminine. “This isn’t going to bring him back.” 

Sam reaches for the bottle and misses. “I tried everything,” The words stumble off of his tongue, fall flat on his chest making it hard to breath. “God, I tried everything." 

“I know,” the words are too soothing, too sweet. Sam loses himself in the warmth, forgets himself in the touch. “I can’t bring him back, Sam, but I can help you get revenge.” 

Sam swears he feels his veins pulse in his hands but blames in on the alcohol and heat. “I’ll burn them all,” Sam says, and he means it. 

“You know what you have to do.” 

Sam forgets the bottle as he reaches for the demon knife, instead. He takes what Ruby offers – mind, body, and blood. 

This is how he justifies it: Sam can’t bring Dean back, but he can take down every demon scum bag that helped put him in his grave. Difficult choices were part of the gig, they've lived with sacrifice long enough to know there is no escaping it. So if he has to give a part of himself, lose a piece of himself to gain enough strength to take down Lilith and her gang of followers, Sam is willing to do it. 

It helps until it doesn't. But he lets the lives he saves cover up the growing hole in his chest. If he can’t live for himself, he can live for this. 

Shouldn't it be enough, then, when Sam opens the door to see Dean? 

(it’s not) 

_Mine_ , it whispers, _this one could never have him_ , and claims him. 

:: 

_Why me?_ Sam asks as his heart breaks. _Why does it have to be me?_

It always had to be Sam. It was written in the dirt and carved into tree trunks and bones buried beneath the ground. It hung in the air like a rainstorm waiting to hit hot pavement. 

It always had to be Sam Winchester so Lucifer meets him when night turns to morning and makes his offer. He will never lie, he will never trick, but he always gets what he wants.

“Yes,” Sam says with a shaking head. “Yes.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This took a darker turn than I expected as Sam and Dean found a way to defeat Lucifer, but I couldn't help it. There's something beautifully tragic about th finality of t all that I had to explore. I would be lying if I said I wouln't love a reappearance from our dear friend Lucy.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts. Always looking to improve. I'll be posting another one shot soon and I'm working on a longer piece, as well, so stay tuned!
> 
> I also just started a twitter for spn and other fandom goodness. If you like what you've read, come and say hi: @HisNameWasDean.


End file.
